So Proudly We Hail
by Reminscees
Summary: "'You're not at all like your flag,' Arthur began, 'You're not pure or innocent. You're just proud. Too damn proud, just like everyone else,'" A study of Alfred's hopes and the American dream over time.


So Proudly We Hail

1945

"You're not at all like your flag," Arthur began, "You're not pure or innocent. You're just proud. Too damn proud, just like everyone else," He spat out, and finished by letting go of Alfred's collar, effectively allowing Alfred to shakily fall and collapse on the floor, losing his balance and leaning against the wall, shaking and wheezing.

"Ha," He breathed out after some time, adjusting his glasses back on his nose. They had gotten knocked off when Arthur punched.

So he was angry.

So what?

So was Alfred.

He coughed, choking- Choking on his words and blood, he supposed.

All Alfred wanted was a good fuck before he flew out to Dresden, together with Arthur, anyhow.

Turns out, Arthur wasn't very willing, and all this time Alfred thought that they had had a bond, a mutual understanding, a-

Well, _something_.

Too much perfection was at stake.

Alfred took all of Arthur's kicks and punches.

They hurt his heart more than he thought they would.

"For- For that there's a war on and I saved your ass, you're not being real' grateful,"

"What do I have to be grateful for?" Arthur stopped walking away and turned around, staring at him.

Alfred stood up slowly, leaning against the wall and swallowing, looking back at him. "_England_."

"You really have no idea, do you-" Arthur cut himself off, scoffed, and moved back towards him, in quick steps he walked over from the files he was been taking inventory of- So _damn_ casually. It was like he was blatantly ignoring Alfred and everything he stood for.

But what did he stand for?

Misplaced certainty, foul innocence, confident ignorance.

"_Arthur_." Alfred finally spoke, rubbing at his shin. Arthur sure could kick pretty hard.

"Don't call me that."

The door slammed and Alfred was left alone.

He sat down, his uniform scratching uncomfortably against his leg, and he felt too hot and too cold in his jacket all at one.

Britain was unfair, he really was. England always- No, _Arthur_ always knew what he was thinking. _Arthur_ always knew what he was doing.

It was a shame that Alfred never understood Arthur.

Arthur was too complex, everything about him was a complicated, coated emotion or metaphor.

Maybe he was even heartless.

Alfred was sure that his own heart was beating fairly quickly in his chest, but it ached, his whole body ached.

He swallowed and breathed.

'_As long as you're breathing, you're alive,_' Arthur had said to him in a field in 1917.

Liar.

Arthur felt like he was dying for some time now, and he was breathing.

A damn fuckin' son-of-a-bitch _liar_.

"I am who I am. If you don't like it, I don't care." Alfred said to no one in particular, brushing a hand through his stained hair.

:::

1924

"Sentiment," Francis began, taking a sip of his champagne.

"What?" Alfred turned his head, arms still leaning on the railing of his balcony, looking out at the night sky and the black garden of his Long Island estate, currently flooded with party goers and fast jazz.

It was loud.

The Garden of Eden.

Huh.

"The emotion you are feeling. It is sentiment." Francis continued, stepping closer.

"You're drunk."

Loud.

"So are you."

"True."

"Tenderness, sadness, nostalgia..." Francis muttered and walked away.

Too loud.

"'S not quite a straight line there." Alfred mumbled to himself. He lit a cigarette.

The fireworks were red, white and blue.

:::

1954

"Hey, Matthew!" Alfred shouted after him, as he picked up his briefcase and walked towards the door, calmly and collected.

"If you ever leave me," He continued, "I'll kill you."

Matthew stopped walking, head not facing Alfred.

"I'll kill you!" He shouted. "I'll kill you, I'll kill you , _I'll kill you!_"

"Then I would certainly be red." Matthew replied quietly, in a tone Alfred remembered from his childhood.

He slammed the door and Alfred was left alone, unafraid due to his ever-present miscalculated anger.

He wondered if this is what it is like to feel lonely.

:::

1917

"Britain," Alfred began, turning his head tiredly to stare at Arthur, who slumped next to him in the trench, coated with blood and dirt, stained with exhaustion.

He seemed to be tainted with exhaustion, nowadays.

Arthur stared at Alfred, eyes trailed towards his uniform.

The little stared-and striped-flag was dirty.

Tainted with exhaustion, perhaps.

"Your flag," Arthur confirmed, "It's dirty."

"Yeah. Yeah, it is." Alfred said sadly. Arthur didn't reply. He turned his head and looked forward. Alfred mirrored his action.

"If you don't look forward," He continued, though not facing Arthur, "You'll lose the future."

"Keep looking forward." Arthur replied, quietly, hesitantly, his voice breaking.

"Keep looking forward." Alfred repeated, and closed his eyes.

:::

And I remember when I met him.

It was so clear that he was the only one for me.

We both knew right away.

And as the years went on things got more difficult,

We were faced with more challenges.

I begged him to stay,

Tried to remember what we had in the beginning.

He was

charismatic,

magnetic,

_electric_,

and everybody knew it.

When he walked in every woman's head turned.

Everyone stood up to talk to him.

He was like this hybrid,

this _mix_ of a man who couldn't contain himself.

I always got the sense that he became

_torn_

between

being a

good person

and missing out on all of the opportunities that

life could offer a man as magnificent as him.

And in that way, I understood him.

And I loved him,

I loved him,

I loved him,

_I loved him._

And I still love him,

I love him.

(Lana Del Rey, _National Anthem_)

:::

_((This is dumb I am so dumb))_


End file.
